


Like Swallowing The Sun

by intrepidheart



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bloodplay, Bottom Sam, Boy King Sam, Breathplay, Choking, Dark Dean, Dark Sam, Demon Blood Addiction, Frottage, Knifeplay, M/M, Porn With Plot, Possessive Dean, Possessive Sam, Sibling Incest, Top Dean, withdrawals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-20
Updated: 2015-12-20
Packaged: 2018-05-07 21:01:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5470673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/intrepidheart/pseuds/intrepidheart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam isn't the same after Dean crawls out of his grave.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like Swallowing The Sun

Sam isn't the same after Dean crawls out of his grave.

It took him too long to notice. That's something he'll never forgive himself for. But listen, there was this "guardian" angel, which is a joke in and of itself because when the fuck has _God_ ever given a shit about them, who had shown up and claimed to have dragged him from the pit, and on top of that, there were more demons than ever before roaming the streets and wreaking havoc like the sons of bitches they are. So yeah, there was a little bit of distraction that had risen in the swirling, chaotic life Dean had abandoned for long twisted blades and gallons of blood that still stained his pores no matter how hard he scrubbed.

Castiel had appeared one afternoon, tilted his head and asked what Dean was doing standing at the sink with his arm in the basin under the steady stream of hot water. When Dean told him, Cas had given him a look, reserved, verging on confused.

"But there is no blood on your arm," he'd said so matter-of-fact, clear blue eyes moving down Dean's arm that was turning pink from the heat and from the force he was using to practically claw the top layer from his body.

"What the fuck are you talking about?" Dean had replied, nails scraping down the skin of his forearm, scalding tap water burning his knuckles as they passed underneath it. "It's fucking everywhere."

And it was. It was all Dean could see, rivers of it flowing from his palms, brown flakes of it, dried and crusted, under his jaw and behind his ear and above his eyebrow, congealing globs of it clogging the space under his fingernails. It was everywhere. But it was never his.

Cas had tried to tell him he was imagining it. Dean told him to fuck off and continued to try to dig the life force of thousands of deformed, carved out souls from his skin.

Sam, on the other hand. Sam is _made_ of blood. Dark blood. Red in color, black in purpose. The kind that shoots out a million barbed hooks in each of his cells, stretching him and pulling him and changing him into something Dean doesn't recognize.

Sam is trying to use it for good.

Sam is also blind. Especially when it comes to people who serve a cause that he would do anything to help with, to believe in, to shape into something worth hoping for. He is too trusting, Dean's little brother. Heart the size of the goddamn planet. It’s his fatal flaw, his hamartia. Christ, does Dean love and hate him for it.

Sam doesn't see Ruby the way Dean does, how her eyes cut over Sam like he is a prize to be obtained, the smooth smirk she tosses around hiding a whisper of triumph Dean can't understand but refuses to trust nonetheless. Dean itches with the want to pin her down and carve the secrets out of the muscles that hold her ribs together, wanting her to suffer under his fingers that have ten years of experience drawing words and screams from countless other bodies. He isn’t sure if it’s because of that glint in her eye or because of how her hand lingers too long on the back of Sam’s neck like she’s his lover, like she earned the right to stand next to his bent figure at the foot of the bed, like she has some sort of special goddamn permission to drag her fingernails through the hair brushing Sam’s cheekbone, she fucking _doesn’t_ , he’s gonna lose it, he’s gonna break her fucking hand, so Dean looks away. Fantasizes about the thirteen different ways to dislodge her kneecap from her leg, but he looks away.

Point is, Sam isn’t the same. And Dean’s struggling here, really fucking struggling to stay afloat after he finds them, finds _Sam_ , nose bleeding, hand outstretched, grimacing as black smoke pours out of an innocent and surges into the floor below. As if that’s normal.

“It’s _my_ normal, Dean!” Sam’s shouting at the motel after Dean pushes him through the front door, arms wide like an invitation for the punch Dean’s been considering throwing ever since they got in the car together. “You’re the one who left! _You_ left _me_. And I needed something, man, I was going to lose my fucking _mind_.”

“Well apparently you lost it!” Dean roars back, throwing himself forward to shove Sam, to get some of this gnawing fear that is making his entire body tremble out through his palms by knocking his brother around. “Using those powers, Sam? Are you kidding me?”

“I’m helping people!”

“That what she’s telling you?” Dean spits out, turning on his heel to give his brother his back as he palms his mouth, grits his teeth together, tries to rein himself in.

“What is it exactly that you have against Ruby?” Sam’s hand is on his shoulder, spinning him around to meet hard, slanted eyes. “That she was there for me when you weren’t?”

“Don’t you fucking dare,” Dean snarls, fists in the front of Sam’s shirt, twisting the material so far out of shape that it’ll never go back to normal. That makes two of them.

Sam is right the fuck there, a living breathing challenge, chest rising and falling in jerks, his exhales breaking harshly over Dean’s face. All Dean can focus on is that Sam smells like mint; not artificial like sticks of peppermint gum, but like fresh leaves crushed between fingers, sharp and intense in his nose. He wants to taste it, and suddenly he is, his tongue in Sam’s mouth instead of dripping words laced with contempt.

Sam jerks away before Dean can find the source, before he can get the essence of his brother imbedded in his tastebuds.

“Dean, what the hell?”

Dean just stares back, the electricity in the room buzzing along every nerve in his body. “Was the only thing I could think of that would make you shut the fuck up.”

Sam’s eyes narrow to near slits before Dean’s feet are jerked from under him, practically toppling him into the wood of the door with the strength of Sam’s palms pushing him there.

“Don’t like hearing about someone else taking care of me, big brother?” Sam whispers it into the curve of his ear, so Dean locks his lips around the length of throat in front of his mouth and bites hard, refusing to be gentle, because this has been building for too long, months and years and decades, too long to fight it anymore, fuck it, maybe Dean didn’t come out the same either, they’re both damaged and the moan vibrating the skin between his teeth is too good to ignore.

“I said shut _up_ , Sam,” Dean hisses as he moves to bruise another spot closer to Sam’s jaw. “No one but me, you fuckin’ hear me?”

“You gonna keep that promise this time, Dean?” Sam gasps, lips dragging across Dean’s temple. “Or you gonna leave me again?”

Dean catches Sam’s ankle with the tip of his boot and yanks, uses the momentary imbalance to switch them, slamming Sam into the door where he was mere seconds ago, hands still tight in Sam’s shirt.

“No, Sammy.” Dean nips into the sharp jut of Sam’s exposed collarbone. “You gonna replace me again?”

He expects a hesitation, a second too long before Sam’s response, before his lie, but Sam breathes it out with conviction, “Never did,” and his hand is tightening in the hair at the back of Dean’s head as Dean’s fingers fumble at the button of his jeans. “Not you, Dean. Could never replace you.”

And that’s all it takes. Dean drops to his knees and pulls those same words out of his little brother with his mouth and his hands again and again and again until it is all he can hear ringing in his ears.

-

Dean walks in and finds Sam, draped all the fuck over Ruby with his lips smeared in crimson and his fingers gripping the inside of her forearm like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded, two days later.

He’s hauling Sam off by the back of his neck, throws in a punch to the cheek for good measure before Sam has clasped both of Dean’s fists in his palms, stilling his thrashing arms with a strength Dean had never felt in his brother before.

“Dean.” Sam says, as if the single syllable of his name is supposed to explain what the fuck is going on right now.

Ruby is stretching out her body on the mattress, a languid curl to her full lips as she practically writhes, beautiful in the same way a siren is: dangerous, lethal. All hidden under a façade and pretty brown eyes. The gash on the creamy skin of the inside of her arm is oozing blood, dark red smearing the duvet and pillows as she draws her hands above her head and sighs. Dean moves his gaze to Sam to start in on him, only to find Sam’s eyes where Dean’s were just a moment before, his entire body unconsciously tilting towards Ruby, towards the veins that pump out the ingredient to the gruesome mask covering the bottom half of his face. Sam turns back to Dean and he can feel the tremors running through his brother, the ache and the need that breach his dilated pupils.

“Please.”

A single word, a plea. How is Dean supposed to say no to that?

Sam slips back onto the bed, crawls up the length, tongue collecting whatever excess had begun to stain the bedspread before closing once more over the wound on Ruby’s arm. Dean can only watch as both of their faces morph into expressions of bliss, jealousy eating deep into the cavern of Dean’s chest because he isn’t the one able to give this to his brother, it should be _him_ , he was the one who gave everything else to Sam, why not this too?

It’s too much, makes his goddamn vision blur, so Dean makes for the door, ready to find the nearest bar, pound back the liquor, pound out this feeling into some eager girl, pound his fist through a fucking wall, until he hears his name. Dean turns, sees Sam, hips digging down into the bed but bright eyes fixated on him, one hand pawing at the covers in Dean’s direction. Dean can feel a foreign pull in his core, one he just knows belongs to his brother and his want for Dean to be near, one that urges Dean’s feet forward until his knees are hitting the bed and Sam’s fingers can catch in his belt loops.

“Come to join the party?” Ruby grins from her place on the pillow, dark curls fanning across the starched white material.

Dean ignores her, lets his body fall forward until he’s on his stomach, inches from Sam’s panting, red, red mouth. His thumb is reaching, skimming through the slick mess practically dripping from his brother’s chin.

“Sammy.”

That’s all it takes for Sam’s lips to envelop Dean’s, the small intake of breath from Ruby ignored as Sam rolls him onto his back and lets his weight settle on Dean’s chest, tongue diving deep to paint the inside of Dean’s mouth with a sickly sweet new flavor. It isn’t Sam, isn’t anything that can be described except as electric, speeding through each cell in his body to light him up like a Christmas tree in July. Dean finds himself missing the taste of mint.

It’s a mere residue of the blood Sam had been intaking, but it still leaves Dean craning forward when Sam pulls away, wanting for more. Sam shakes his head as he works a knife from the back pocket of his jeans, blade shining in the dull light of the motel room.

“Not hers, Dean. Mine. You’re mine.”

The tip of the knife pierces the center of Sam’s palm, a small flower that pools and then opens its petals, slipping into the natural lines etched in the worn and calloused skin of Sam’s hand. Fingers scrabbling to tilt the beading fluid into his mouth, Dean uses the flat of his tongue to bring it in and swallow it down, a bone-rattling groan muffled by Sam’s palm. It’s all Dean can do to close his eyes and use his teeth to nip around the open wound to draw even more out, needing Sam in him and around him and fucking everywhere.

The thought of their blood entwining within his body makes Dean jerk forward, sharp relief shivering through him when he meets resistance from the leg Sam has slipped between his thighs. Sam’s saying something above him in whimpers but Dean can’t understand it, the acute itch scrabbling through him reducing him to mere sounds, no concept of words or sentences. Sam’s blood isn’t as potent as Ruby’s but it’s addictive in its own way, something to do with the fact that this is the same fluid that runs through his brother’s veins mixed with a heady edge, a spark of something that Ruby’s lacks.

When Dean opens his eyes again, it’s to the sound of clinking and clothes rustling. Sam’s using his free hand to fumble with Ruby’s shirt while his mouth works over the cut in her arm and Ruby is pulling Sam’s belt free from his loops, tossing it over the side of the bed to land on the floor. Dean sits up immediately, Sam’s palm sliding down his chin to leave a mixed trail of spit and blood.

“Get out.”

Ruby pushes herself up, incredulous eyes meeting Dean’s with a scoff. When she gets a good look at the way Dean isn’t backing down and watches Dean’s hand settle protectively over the small of Sam’s back, she just smiles.

“You’re missing out, Dean,” she sing-songs, uses soft fingers to unlatch Sam’s mouth from her arm, who makes a wordless protest. Scooting down until she can stand, Ruby shrugs on her jacket and works her hair out from under the collar before catching his eye again. “I’m a great lay. Just ask your brother.” Then she’s gone, disappearing so fast that Dean has to blink several times to adjust to her not being there.

Sam flips over onto his back and edges up using his elbows, still sprawled out on the covers like a sinful invitation. "Dean..."

"No," Dean snaps, shoving Sam back down on the bed with a hand on his chest. “Have you fucked her since I’ve been topside?”

The silence that hangs between them is punctuated only by the harsh breaths breaking from each of their lungs. Fire floods Dean's veins, his vision narrowing until all he can see is Sam's eyes, still hazy and dark with lust and anticipation, and his fingers sliding up Sam's shirt to wrap around the column of his throat. His body follows, stretching out on top of Sam as he ducks his head, teeth latching onto Sam's earlobe and tongue flicking over the soft skin. He can feel Sam's pulse thumping against the underside of his fingers, warm and fast and moving Ruby's tainted blood through his veins with every push-pull beat and he wants to taste it again, taste _Sam_ , but not as badly as he wants to remind his brother of the promise he made.

"Thought you heard me when I said no one but me, Sammy," Dean grinds out as he tightens his fingers, a whine vibrating under his touch as it travels up Sam's neck and out of his mouth. "Thought you weren't gonna replace me?"

Sam's hand swallows the back of the one Dean is squeezing around his throat, pushing down even harder as his mouth falls open to try to pull in little gasps of air. His other hand is on Dean's ass, urging him to meet the stuttering upward grind of his hips lifting off the bed. Dean groans, moving his lips to his brother's to capture the last of his breath, the last of his control over anything here.

When Sam comes, it’s with Dean’s name stuttering out of his mouth and his eyes rolling back into his head. Dean thinks he’s made his point.

-

Sam wants to keep pulling demons out of civilians with his mind. Dean’s starting to get on board.

Look. It’s saving people, _innocent_ people, from the invasive possession of their mind and body that sunk into them like tar, drowning them, suffocating them. Sam’s freeing them from that, Sam with his lips dressed in gore and his hand in a claw, drawing churning black smoke out of their mouths to sink it back into the ground in a smoldering ring.  

Apparently, the angels aren’t on the same page.

Sam’s out meeting up with Ruby, his second time in two weeks now, and Dean can practically hear the bitch demon’s purr of what a big boy Sam’s become. All those corded muscles, the broad sweep of Sam’s chest, the strong cut of his jaw. Almost as if the blood is strengthening him, building him up into a darker version of the boy Dean still sees in the hazel gems of his eyes.

Dean’s in the motel, packing up their things to be ready to hit the road once Sam comes back with the next round of locations where demons have started to amass. There’s something going on in the sidelines that Dean’s still not sure of, but Sam trusts Ruby and Dean... well, Dean trusts Sam.

It’s when Dean is swinging the bathroom door open to take a leak that Castiel appears, so silently and suddenly that Dean yelps and nearly slips on the tiles.

“ _Christ_.”

Cas tilts his head to the side, staring at Dean blankly with cold, blue eyes. “No, Dean. I am Castiel.”

“Double Christ,” Dean mutters, side-stepping the angel. “I know that. It’s an expression, Cas.”

“But why would you-”

“What do you want?” Dean turns and lifts his arms up before letting them fall back to his sides.

Castiel’s face reverts back to stone, no trace of emotion to be found as he rumbles, “We need to talk.”

“You breaking up with me?” Dean drawls with a roll of his eyes, only to be cut off by a tight grip in the front of his shirt dragging him back out into the main room.

“This,” Castiel says with an edge of calm that is terrifyingly cold. “Is not a laughing matter, Dean Winchester. You have strayed too far. This is not what you were brought back for. You _must_ follow God’s plan for you, or else-”

“Or else what?” Dean hisses, catching Cas’s wrist to try and yank it away with no luck. “He gonna toss me back down in the pit? Smite me with holy fire? Big words from the invisible man in the sky that’s done jack shit no matter how often his goddamn world’s nearly fallen apart.”

“Do not blaspheme in my presence,” Castiel booms, the window panes trembling in their frames as the entire room shakes from the power in his voice. “And do not forget who raised you from Hell, boy.”

“It’s not like you ever let me,” Dean snaps back at Cas’s narrowed stare.

The next thing Dean knows is the pain rocketing up his spine once Cas throws him to the floor. Looming above him, Castiel looks like an avenging angel, dark shadows cutting into the grimace on his face as he glares down at Dean with enough fire in his eyes to keep him pinned.

“Find your way back to the light, Dean. Stop your brother. No matter the cost.”

It would be timely for Sam to swing the door open right at that moment, pausing in the doorway to take in Dean on his back and Cas towering over him. Nostrils flaring, Sam steps forward, arm outstretched, and Dean just barely manages to catch Cas’s eyes widening before he’s gone, the sound of fluttering wings fading as quickly as they came.

“Dean?” Sam’s by his side in a second, heaving him to his feet, big hands sweeping up his sides, shoulders, to his cheeks. “Dean, you okay? What happened? Why was he here?”

“Fine, Sammy,” Dean grates out. “He just stopped by for a little tea party, ‘s all.”

The nip of teeth at Dean’s jaw makes his breath catch and the hands pushing down on his chest tell him that Sam’s not appreciating the joke here. What is with everyone today?

Just like that, Dean’s thoughts trickle out his ears between the time his back hits the mattress of his bed and Sam shoves Dean’s shirt up under his armpits. Sam always gets like this right after he gets hopped up, all handsy and needy and desperate, hot mouth on Dean’s neck and prettiest whimpers slipping into Dean’s ears. Sam had learned his lesson, that Ruby isn’t the one to go to for these touches.

“Did he try something?” Sam bites the words into the line of Dean’s ribs, making his body jerk.

“What? Cas?” Dean snorts, but then Sam’s head snaps up and his eyes are hooded, dark and dangerous in a way that scatters goosebumps across every inch of skin Sam has exposed to the air around them. “Jesus, Sam, no.”

Sam grunts, goes back to stroking his hand reverently down Dean’s side as he noses at Dean’s abdomen. “I’ve seen how he looks at you.”

Dean can barely stop himself from rolling his eyes. “Like I’m a disappointment? Their failed righteous man?”

Something snaps like a whip, popping in Dean’s ears to leave him speechless as Sam suddenly is hovering over his face, fingers tight on the back of his head. The grip is near painful, digging right into his skull, but it keeps him in place enough for Sam’s stare to pierce him straight down to the core.

“Don’t ever say that again.” Dirt and gravel down the back of Sam’s throat, skittering through his words to coat them in a seriousness Dean hasn’t heard in a long time. All Dean can do is shut up and nod. Once he does, Sam’s hold on him loosens, returns to the petting that generally leads to sweat-slick skin and tangled sheets. Dean arches up as Sam slides down his body, the fingers of both hands bumping over sternum and ridges of ribs and hipbones that sit just shy of the tops of Dean’s jeans.

“You know what I mean,” Sam continues a few minutes later after he’s sucked a bruise into the space next to Dean’s belly button, tongue flicking out to soothe the mark.

“Don’t,” is all Dean can manage to reply with when he can feel Sam’s fingers drag along the outline of the bulge in his jeans.

“Like he _owns_ you.” Sam scrapes his teeth down the trail of coarse hair that disappears into Dean’s jeans before mouthing at the metal button trapped by denim. Dean’s just about ready to lose his mind. “Like he thinks you’re his because he left that mark on you.”

Something tells Dean to open his eyes, didn’t even know he’d shut them, Jesus, and look down at his brother. Sam’s gaze was fixed on Dean’s arm, just below the cut of his short sleeve. He already knows what Sam is staring at before he turns his head to see for himself. The ugly burn in the outline of a hand, still raised and pink, sits on his skin like a brand.

“You’re mine.”

Dean rolls his head again to watch Sam pop open the button of his jeans before dragging the zipper down with his teeth, his hips pumping up involuntarily. Hot palms seal themselves to Dean’s stomach and hold him down so Dean closes his eyes, reaching to tangle his fingers in Sam’s hair instead, kneading and pulling silently, c’mon, Christ, c’mon.

“ _Mine_ , Dean.”

“Yours, Sammy,” Dean pants back, practically writhing now at the torturous inches Sam is easing his jeans down. “Always been, you know that.”

He can’t help the frustrated moan that leaves him when Sam stops, leaves his jeans halfway down his ass and moves away. The dark chuckle that reaches his ears makes him shiver when Sam is back and pressing something long and cold into the cut of his hipbones. Dean’s eyes fly open and he shoves himself up onto his elbows to see Sam folding himself back down between Dean’s open legs as he skates the flat blade of a knife up Dean’s stomach.

“You gonna let me mark you, big brother?” Sam’s grin is white, no traces of pink left from the blood he was sucking not too long ago. “Make you mine?”

Dean nods at breakneck speed, can barely breathe as Sam shoves him further up the bed until his head is bouncing off the pillows.

“Clothes, Sam, c’mon, clothes,” Dean pants, wiggling as he works his shirt off and tosses it aside.

Sam, the bastard, shakes his head, pins Dean down with a stare as he crawls forward while leisurely drawing the tip of his knife in languid circles from Dean’s abdomen up to his heart. “Not yet.”

“Sam, I swear to God-”

Dean’s words are silenced by the harsh clack of teeth meeting his own, Sam’s kiss coming in so fast and hungry that Dean’s head is spinning by the time he gathers himself enough to kiss his brother back. It’s biting, hot and wild with Sam’s tongue pillaging his mouth, Sam’s lips bruising his own with their ferocity. Only after Dean is left numb and dumb does Sam retreat enough to press his forehead to Dean’s cheek.

“There is no God here.” There’s a starburst of pain, dragging itself in swift short lines into the skin over Dean’s heart. He cries out, bucks up to escape it only to have steel-cut hips lock with his own to grind him back down into the bed. It’s all he can do to let his head fall back and allow Sam to set the rhythm, the frantic, dirty drag of their denim-covered cocks not enough yet also too much. Another flare of pain, four sharp jerks of the knifepoint. Dean is coming by the time Sam’s lips skim his own to whisper, “Not for us.”

Sam lets Dean mark him back later, after Dean slides inside him and has reduced Sam to nothing more than gasps and moans with the snap of his hips. Carving his matching initials into the smooth plane of skin covering Sam’s left pec isn’t as hard as he imagined it would be. He managed to time his thrusts with the drag of the knife so the rocking momentum of Sam’s body did most of the work in splitting open his skin. Watching the rivulets of blood run down to pool in the hollow of Sam’s throat, already flushed red and beaded with sweat from how hard Dean is bearing down on him, is captivating. It earns him a shuddering gasp when he licks it all away, the sickly sweet copper taste of Sam ingraining itself on his tongue.

Dean seals their chests together, tight as a vacuum, as he comes for the second time with the velvet heat of his little brother clenching around him. When he lifts himself up on shaking arms, his eyes find the heaving expanse of Sam’s chest and a satisfied grin pulls at his mouth. It had worked. Sam, still dazed and panting, raised his hand to drag his finger from his initials that he had carved over Dean’s heart over to the bloody outline of Dean’s that had smeared onto Dean’s chest when they had pressed their bodies together, the mirror image of his own.

“Mine,” Sam sighs, closing his eyes as Dean folds himself back down to mouth at Sam’s lips.

“Yours.”

-

Dean pretends that he doesn’t notice the tremble in his fingers on day three of Sam being off in Bumfuck, Nowhere with Ruby, leaving Dean with nothing more than a “Trust me, Dean, I’ll explain it all when I’m back” and a really bad taste in his mouth. He also pretends that his head isn’t spinning at all hours of the day. Drowns that out with half a bottle of whiskey during the really bad times, pops a sleeping pill or three when it get even worse. Ignoring the excessive sweating is hard. Ignoring the hallucinations dancing at the edges of his vision is a little harder. It’s like having a perpetual hangover while still tripping balls, and Dean isn’t enjoying a second of it.

He’s in the middle of having a conversation with John, telling him that he in fact _does_ know how to clean a shotgun properly, Dad, fuck you very much, when Sam stumbles into their Montana motel room, laughing and twitching like he used to when he was twelve and they had just finished off too many bags of sour gummy worms.

“Dean!” Sam is breathless, eyes too bright, teeth gleaming like pearls in the dim lamplight on the table between the two beds as he moves closer. “DeanDeanDean-” Too much of his name slipping off his little brother’s tongue mixed with John in his ear, whispering about how far he had let this family fall, how he was watching them from wherever he was in horror at how easily Dean had given in to his sickness, his disease, how he had let it infect Sammy too, just _disgusting_ -

“ _Dean!_ ”

He flies off the edge of his bed, away from the twin voices of his family that had melded into one, and locks himself in the bathroom. When Sam kicked the door in a minute later, he was met with Dean retching emptily into the toilet, his hands shaking too hard to get a good grip on the damp porcelain.

Dean barely remembers how he ends up on the bed again, turned over on his side with Sam pressed up tight to his back and fingers combing through the hair on his forehead.

“Stupid, so stupid, Dean, ‘m so sorry, didn’t even think about it, I didn’t realize-” Sam’s murmuring it all into the space behind Dean’s ear, his voice hitching with worry as he moves his hand to drag his sleeve past his elbow and pulls out his knife. “I’ve got you, Dean, lemme take care of you.”

It should be alarming that Dean can smell it the moment that the blade pierces Sam’s skin, that he knows the blood pooling around the sharp metal will alleviate the pain, but it isn’t. It’s soothing to open his eyes and watch the blade dig in harder, to follow the trail of blood oozing down towards Sam’s wrist before it nudges against his lips. Dean parts his lips, lets Sam drag his arm forward so Dean’s tongue can catch the little river that left his cut before stopping at the main wound for Dean to close his mouth around it.

The taste flooding his mouth is like soiled redemption, dragging him out of the buzzing, unsteady world of his mind and back into reality lined with the heat of his brother’s body curled tightly against his own. He can’t help but moan, weak hands struggling to lift and latch onto Sam’s arm to hold him still as he sucks in his favorite poison.

“Tha’s it,” Sam slurs into the back of Dean’s neck, sounding drunk and still stupid-happy now that he was helping Dean feel better. “Take everything you need. Anything for you, Dean, c’mon.”

Dean barely realizes that they’re rocking together until Sam works one of his legs between both of Dean's to give Dean something to rut against, encouraging him from his hazy half-aroused state into full hardness after only a few rolls of his hips. Dean’s thighs clamp down around Sam’s and he arches his back as he takes a deep swallow of Sam’s sweetened blood, groaning around the feeling of electricity sliding through his veins to pool low in his abdomen. He can’t hear John anymore.

“You wanna know what I did, Dean? Why I had to go?” Sam’s voice is husky and deep like it always gets when they start fucking around. “I drained three demons. _Three_. And today-” Sam lets out a laugh that sounds more like a huff as he swivels his hips up tighter against Dean’s ass and Dean pushes back into it just to hear Sam’s breath catch. “-Today was the big day. And it _worked_ , Dean, can’t believe it did. Didn’t know if Ruby was right, if I could do it, but I did.” There’s that hint of childish approval that Dean knows so well in his baby brother, the one he always used when he wanted Dean to see what he’d done, to say how smart Sammy was, how proud Dean was of him.

Dean bites down on the gash to bring out a new wave of blood, his tongue tracing the parted edges as he drinks and drinks and drinks until his world is clear again, the muscles in his arms and hands flexing with restored power. Humming low in his throat, Dean lets go of Sam’s arm in favor of twisting his body to roll them over twice. It feels right when Sam is on top of him, a smothering line of heat and sweat and those too-bright teeth grinning down at him.

“Wanna know what I did, Dean?”

“Whassat, Sammy?” Dean mumbles as he pats the mattress beside him blindly until he picks up the knife that had been dropped. He can’t help the little “uh” that gets punched out of him when Sam reaches down and squeezes him through his jeans, lithe fingers dancing down to the head of his aching dick, Christ, he needs to just stop wearing pants altogether.

Sam snickers, still high on three, “ _three_ ” Sam’s voice in the back of Dean’s head reiterates, demons and whatever else is feeding this giddy excitement that is pouring off him in waves. Dean just slides his hand through Sam’s hair and uses his leverage to tilt his head to the side so he can watch the tip of the blade nick the skin right where the column of Sam’s neck and the corded muscle of his shoulder meet. Diving forward, Dean plants his mouth at the mark he made, sucking in time with the slow grind of the heel of Sam’s hand into the tented denim of his crotch.

“What’dya do, Sam?” Dean manages to ask around the gross amount of spit and blood slicking his mouth. The question makes Sam shiver and he bends in even closer, crushing Dean’s chest with his weight as his lips make it somewhere in the vicinity of Dean’s ear. A sweep of damp air from another low chuckle skims Dean’s neck and he sucks harder, high on the blood and his brother and the gorgeous feeling building up inside of him, just as Sam whispers, “I killed an angel.”

-

Seems that murdering one of God’s chosen isn’t the best plan of action when trying to keep under the radar.

Also seems like God underestimated Dean’s baby brother.

It happened more than once that Dean was driving and he would swerve on reflex to avoid the angel that had suddenly appeared, angel blade in hand, directly in his path. It also happened more than once that Sam was out of the car before Dean could even slow it down below thirty miles an hour and Dean would have to whip around to watch Sam, feet spread and hand outstretched, kill said angel by pulling light out of its every orifice before dissipating it with a quick twist of his fist. And by dissipating, Dean means that the light fuses together and then explodes outwards in a shockwave that pops the pressure in Dean’s ears. The first few times, Sam had been blown backwards. Now he leans into the rush of energy, a crazed glint to his eye as he turns to smile triumphantly at Dean before running back to the passenger’s side door to slide along the leather and haul Dean in for a kiss.

The whole deal with the pack of demons trailing their every move was kind of annoying too. They seemed drawn to Sam’s power, like some kind of whacked out groupies. It even got to the point that they were offering themselves up, black eyes flicking slickly into place as they cornered Sam and Dean in their local bar of the week, all of them just _dying_ to be part of the blood coursing through Dean’s little brother’s veins.

Castiel visited two more times, always in those sparse moments when Sam was away from Dean, before he stopped coming at all. It was clearly disappointment in the rings of blue that beseeched him that final time, and Dean knew he was supposed to feel guilt, supposed to feel something other than disdain for this poor winged bastard, but he didn’t.

It did come as a surprise, however stupid that may sound, when Dean was tossed back down into Hell.

It’s something he should’ve known, expected, _prepared_ for, at the very least, but he’d gone soft in Sam’s presence, too busy basking in the heat and awe and unshakeable raw power that lined every edge of his little brother’s body.

Tragic, really, that it happened so fast. The wave of angelic soldiers sweeping in through the motel that they and the demon lackies were staying at, shattering windows and glass doors with the piercing whine of their true voices to destroy some of the angel warding of their room before a dark figure jumped through to draw slashes through the rest with a can of spray paint. Sam stopped them with a thought, killed them with another, both of them shocked in the few spare seconds they had to see that it was Ruby’s body hitting the floor. Dean barely had time to bask in the fact that he was right about the bitch before a colossal spotlight was turned on them, the entire room burning white. All Dean could do was reach for his brother before something hooked around his ankle and dragged him down, down, down and away, white shifting over into red.

The smell of melting flesh, rotting bone marrow and burning hair assail Dean’s senses, choking him as the grip around his feet tightens and yanks him down further. He can’t see, everything falling by him so fast that it’s a blur of yawning mouths locked in horrific screams, flesh hanging off the blackened walls in strips, fountains of blood, just blood everywhere. Memories of chains engulf him, of hooks gouging his sinew and ligaments until he feels like he’s being ripped in half again under Alistair’s hands. That’s when he starts to scream.

-

White-hot metal blades jabbing here, there, up and down his body like starbursts before one clean sweep takes off half of Dean’s right thigh. Nasally cackle, heaving laughter that slides under Dean’s skin like sticky tar, and he hates that Alistair kept the form of the body he and Sam had seen him in while topside. He’d give anything to have a pair of hands to strangle this fucker’s neck but Alistair lopped those off two days ago, if Dean’s counting right.  

“When I get off this rack,” Dean promises, to which Alistair snipes right back, “Not making that mistake twice.”

That’s when Dean sees a bloody hand appear from behind Alistair to encase his gaunt chin in a crushing grip.

“Fix him,” Dean hears, and his body goes limp in relief. He flexes, feels his fingers actually curl, feels the muscles over his leg sew back together to make him whole once again, right before the gushing and gagging draws his eyes back over to where acrid smoke is pouring free from the hole of Alistair’s chapped lips before the body drops to the floor and disintegrates.

Then it’s Sam, all Sam, bloody hands caressing Dean’s cheeks before fumbling with the restraints, whispering apologies close to his ear so Dean can hear him over the strangled shrieks echoing around them, begging Dean to understand, they’d been on the run, he’d had to regroup, wipe out half the army he’d amassed, drained all the bastards to get down here, to get to him.

When Sam kisses Dean, he tastes like ash and mint, of all things. A memory almost lost in the haze of tainted blood and the drug of Sam’s laughter.

He just hangs on as Sam leads him through this maze of tattered souls, closing his eyes when the sights and smell gets to be too much. Faintly, he hears Sam speaking again, so he tries to pull himself back together, lifts his face to look at his little brother. Little brother’s not so little anymore.

“I’ve got you, Dean.” Sam’s face swims before him, blurring at the edges with the sudden onslaught of exhaustion sweeping through him. “I can carry you.”

So Dean lets him.

-

The world has changed.

Something fundamental has shifted, setting everything off balance in a way that Dean can sense even with his eyes closed. He first feels out his surroundings, fingers gingerly pressing outwards. Bed. Soft bed. Memory foam? Damn, he doesn’t know the last time he’s slept on something this nice.

All his limbs are intact. His nose is no longer scorched by the stomach-turning smells associated with the writhing souls in the pit. Clean air, fresh. The brush of wind against his cheek from an open window, somewhere off to his left. The soft but steady sound of something popping out of place.

Dean furrows his brows, finally lets his eyes blink open. No, that’s not right. It isn’t popping, it’s… He can’t place it.

“Sam?” His voice is hoarse, breaks all high and squeaky on the last syllable of his brother’s name like he’s a goddamn preteen again. Clears his throat and opens his mouth to try again except he doesn’t need to because Sam’s suddenly there, leaning over him with the gentlest of smiles. It’s a harsh contrast to the spray of blood covering his neck.

“Hey, Dean.”

“Hey.” Dean licks his lips on impulse, shivers at the lingering taste of what he knows is his brother’s blood. Sam must have fed him while he was passed out. Speaking of blood. “You okay?” he rasps, shifting up on one elbow so he can drag his fingers down Sam’s throat, the ache in his bones fading when he feels the steady thrum of his pulse under his fingertips. The odd noise has stopped.

“Fine, Dean, I promise. It’s not mine, don’t worry.”

Dean would like nothing better than to get his hands all over Sam, make sure he isn’t lying and do the check himself that Sam isn’t hurt, but his curiosity about where they are is pulling his attention away.

“Where are we?”

The single sweep of the room is enough to tell Dean that it’s a hotel room. Not a motel, a _hotel_. A fancy hotel. Like, a balcony on the far side of the room, full on kitchen, flat screen TV, enormous king-sized bed, and from what Dean can see of the half open door to the bathroom, a Jacuzzi in their goddamn bathroom.

“Penthouse,” Sam replies easy as you please, like this is just another day on the job, except for the fact that it’s _not_.

“Penthouse.” Dean repeats it because he deems it worth repeating, but that doesn’t stop Sam from giving him that annoying condescending look he always keeps in reserve just for him. “Penthouse?”

The look slides off Sam’s face, replaced with a dopey grin. “I get perks now, being king and all.”

That grinds Dean’s mental gears to a halt. “You get - wait, what?”

“C’mon!” Sam doesn’t wait for Dean to move himself, just scoops his arms underneath Dean’s to haul him out of bed. He gets his feet under him and elbows Sam away.

“I got two workin’ legs, I can walk, dammit.”

“Then come _on_ ,” Sam whines, all shiny-eyed like he used to get right before Dean would open his present at Christmas back when they actually kind of celebrated it. Sam’s hand is stretched out towards him, not curled and menacing, but open-palmed. Inviting. So Dean takes it and tries not to blush as he follows his brother out onto the balcony.

At first, he thinks that he’s standing on a cloud. His socked feet have disappeared under a puff of white that lifts and settles every time they step closer to the barrier enclosing the balcony. He can’t stop staring down, trying to piece everything together, to make sure he’s not still dreaming. It’s when his eyes are drawn to the only bit of color amidst the blanket of white they stand on, that misshapen lump at the other end over by the bench seat that sits in front of the sliding glass door that led them out here, that everything clicks. Dean recognizes the tan overcoat under the spatter of red, the crumpled blue tie wrapped around a pale neck. What is making the body look so twisted are the two broken wings bent at harsh, awkward angles with more than half of the delicate white feathers plucked free. That would explain the noise Dean had heard earlier.

A tug of Sam’s hand around his is all it takes for Dean to drag his eyes back over to his brother and the world beyond. Everything is in flames.

“I figured Wall Street should burn first,” Sam says very matter-of-factly, turning to gaze into the distance as a plume of smoke erupts with an accompanying boom. The fire is spreading.

“Sam,” Dean breathes, leaning forward over the railing to take it all in.

“We’ll have to leave soon but I figured, hey, what the hell.” Sam shrugs and smiles a little as he squeezes Dean’s fingers. “At least we got the New York penthouse experience at least once in our lives.”

Dean still can’t find the right words to properly describe his awe or this tight swelling in his chest, some mottled version of pride in his baby brother. His silence seems to be making Sam upset though, enough to drop Dean’s hand and clasp his own together to hang over the railing. His fingernail beds are stained with blood.

“I guess Gordon was right. About me being the Antichrist.” He looks almost sad as he says it. Dean can’t have that, so he steps up behind Sam and noses at the nape of his neck, planting a soft kiss to the skin there as he wraps his arms around the sinful slant of Sam’s waist.

“Nah,” Dean whispers as he sets his chin on Sam’s shoulder, his fingers running absently up and down Sam’s abdomen. “You’re just Sammy.”

Sam turns in Dean’s grasp until they’re chest to chest, noses barely brushing as Sam lifts his hands to cup Dean’s cheeks. He leans in, takes Dean’s bottom lip between his teeth and pulls him even closer before enveloping Dean’s mouth with his. He doesn’t know how long they stand there, mapping each other with their tongues and lips. He just knows that by the time they finally break apart, he feels more at peace than he has in all his life.

"I’d do anything for you, Dean.” The seriousness in Sam’s tone brings his eyes up from Sam’s kiss-swollen lips to the familiar fields of hazel Dean had been lost in since the day Sam had come home wrapped in that bundle of blankets. Sam nods a little as he speaks, like he’s trying to get Dean to understand, to listen. As if Dean wasn’t captivated already. “You know that, right? I would end the world for you."

"Sammy,” Dean grins, slow and easy as he turns them until they can both look out at the crumbling skyscrapers, the red haze on the horizon. He leans in and captures Sam’s mouth with his one more time, murmuring the words against his one real home. “You already did."


End file.
